


on isolation and intimacy

by juxtaposed_cat



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill, rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 21:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17712122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtaposed_cat/pseuds/juxtaposed_cat
Summary: See, Felwinter Peak has always been just as cold as, if not colder than, the Warlord who claimed it for so long.  The mountain was just a metaphor for the impenetrable chill about him.  And on this particularly frigid night, there’s a lot of cold: the icy shock of Timur’s hands, the chill of his body, the biting air of Felwinter’s quarters.





	on isolation and intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> kmeme prompt fill: https://leviathanbathhouse.dreamwidth.org/265.html?thread=3593#cmt3593  
> "Colder than usual night atop felwinter peak"
> 
> assumes Exos can/do have dongs and stuff

Felwinter’s startled awake by the soft creak of the door to his quarters opening.  Instinctively, he channels a whorl of Light in his hand and prepares to pitch a Void grenade on the intruder.  He has to stop and remind himself— _these are_ friends _, they’re not here to hurt you_ , before he’s able to let the charge in his hand dissipate.

“Felwinter?” a soft voice asks, and it’s unmistakably the voice of Lord Timur.  There’s no one else it could possibly be at this hour.

“Lord Timur,” Felwinter says, sitting himself up in bed.  He shivers from the residual touch of Void in the air and hopes that Timur doesn’t notice.

“Did I startle you? I tried to be quiet. May I come in?” It’s almost endearing how awkward Timur looks standing at his door, at least two blankets wrapped around himself in a vain attempt to keep the cold at bay.

Felwinter finds himself saying, “Of course,” lifting his blanket enough for Timur to slide into bed beside him.  He lays back down, and Timur fits himself against his back.

He tries not to give much thought to how _quickly_ he allowed Timur into his bed—just let him climb in without a second thought.  He keeps trying to tell himself that it’s so a fellow Iron Lord won’t freeze to death in subzero temperatures, but that’s a complete lie for a couple reasons.  One: Timur is entirely capable of keeping himself from freezing to death.  And two: there’s not another Iron Lord (or person) he would let into his bed for any reason.  Recognizing this, however, would mean that Felwinter would have to think about _labels_ for the two of them _,_ and that’s too much to think about right now.

Thankfully, Timur’s hands roaming over his body serve as a distraction; the cold trails of his fingers make Felwinter shiver.  That has to be a quirk of his, Timur’s restlessness.  Never a moment goes by where the man’s not moving or touching something.  Embarrassingly enough, his hands have sort of become something Felwinter thinks about often.  He’d never tell Timur, though, about how his mind drifts off to think about Timur’s hands smoothing over his bare stomach; about Timur’s electric fingers dancing sparks along his limbs; about _Timur_ , Timur’s hands, Timur’s lips, Timur’s smile—

_Everything_ about the man tentatively, (almost) mindlessly exploring his body with cold, but soft fingers is maddening to Felwinter.  He knows Timur too well; those hands of his may seem mindless in their exploration, but because it’s Timur, each press of his fingers and each light scrape of a nail is full of intent and purpose.

Part of Felwinter is indignant—Timur _has_ to know what he does to him—and part of him resents letting another person this close to him—physically _and_ emotionally.  But most of him is slowly getting used to… this.  This whole thing.  Companionship.  Intimacy. (One might call it love.)

See, Felwinter Peak has always been just as cold as, if not colder than, the Warlord who claimed it for so long.  The mountain was just a metaphor for the impenetrable chill about him.  And on this particularly frigid night, there’s a lot of cold: the icy shock of Timur’s hands, the chill of his body, the biting air of Felwinter’s quarters.

There’s warmth on Felwinter Peak too, since Timur came with the Wolves and melted the ice away—since Felwinter’s learned that he’s with friends.  That he _has_ friends.  And there’s warmth in his quarters, too, in Felwinter’s body from being huddled under his thick blankets, and of course, in his partner’s heart.

And the longer Felwinter thinks on it, maybe there’s warmth in his heart, too.  It’s something Timur’s bringing out in him.

When Timur’s cold hands slip under Felwinter’s shirt, he’s brought out of his thoughts.

“Fel?” Timur asks, voice so, so gentle, like Felwinter’s a small, skittish creature about to bolt on him. “Is this okay?”

The nickname always gets to him—Fel—none of the other Iron Lords call him that, just Timur, and he’s always so liberal with it.  It’s a little overwhelming, so when he tries to say _yes_ , _yes, it’s all right, your touch is always okay_ , what comes out instead is a flat, “You’re cold.”

Quiet laughter bubbles up in the man glued to his back as his hands pull Felwinter back into a gentle embrace.  “Well, you’re rather warm,” he says.

Silence falls between the two of them after that as the chill of Timur’s body slowly gives way to warmth.  Felwinter’s thermoreceptors don’t fail to tell him how _warm_ Timur gets; they track the warm trails his hands leave as they caress the seams between plates, the movement of pseudo-muscles.  It’s more than just a pleasant sensation, and he has to consciously keep himself from arching into Timur’s touch.  The last thing he wants is to give Timur any indication that his touch drives the Exo mad with desire, for fear of driving him away.

“Lord Timur,” gasps Felwinter as Timur presses his fingers _just right_ into the area below where thigh meets hip, teasing him with the suggestion of more.  Damn it all, Felwinter’s voice is much breathier than it has any business being, and the way his body just bends into Timur’s touch on its own is incredibly revealing and unbelievably embarrassing.

“Just Timur is fine, Fel,” he corrects, his lips brushing against the nape of his neck, smoothing his palm over the swell of Felwinter’s thigh before pressing into his inner hip again.  This time, Felwinter manages to stay quiet. “You’ve no need to be formal with me.”

“ _Timur_ ,” Felwinter tries again, shivering, as the Warlock’s hands inch lower and lower on his torso.  His thumbs rub circles into the plating on his stomach, and at this point Felwinter knows he’s teasing, testing the waters, seeing how much it takes before he breaks down and asks for more.

“Does that feel good? I do always wonder what does. You won’t tell me,” Timur murmurs, the hint of a laugh creeping into his voice.  Felwinter can feel the smile on his lips.

Damn him.  Timur knows the hold he’s got on Felwinter, as secure a hold he has when he’s controlling others with his brass familiar.  Felwinter can’t find the right words to respond, but figures that the groan that slips from him as Timur’s lips touch his neck is response enough.

For some reason, that sound is enough to make Timur switch gears and help him remember the time of night.  Rather abruptly, Timur says, “Ah, I should let you rest. Forgive me for distracting you,” and has the audacity to _stop_ what he’s doing, moving his head to rest against Felwinter’s back, bringing his hands back to himself.  Felwinter could kill him.

Before he has a chance to catch himself, Felwinter’s capturing one of Timur’s hands in his own, holding it against his body.  He swears he hears a sharp inhale from Timur, but Timur says nothing else.  Felwinter is about to say something, justify himself, but his sensors register the gentle swipe of Timur’s thumb over the side of his hand and suddenly he can’t remember what he was going to say.

All that comes out of his mouth is a mortifying “Timur, please,” and Felwinter can feel a fan kick in to stop him from overheating.

“Oh?” Timur perks up, as if he’s stumbled upon something interesting, or as if he’s focusing in on a weakness. “Please what, Felwinter?” His hands inch back under his shirt for good measure.

“Don’t stop,” Felwinter blurts, before he can think about it. “It feels…”

“Good?” Timur offers, humming his approval.  Felwinter nods.  Even as warm as he already is, he can still feel himself burning up from embarrassment.  When did Timur’s voice drop so low?  It’s maddeningly attractive.  Despite it all, Felwinter readily arches into Timur’s touch when his hands resume sweeping over his body in earnest; over his sides, his stomach, his thighs.

Timur’s touch never once dips where Felwinter’s aching for it the most.  The closest he gets is trailing down the insides of his hips, only to draw away with a huff of laughter when Felwinter groans.

Timur’s just _playing_ with him, Felwinter realizes, far too late, as Timur’s lips and tongue return to his neck.  His hands pass once more near his aching cock before Felwinter’s had enough.

“You _tease_ ,” Felwinter complains.

“Oh, all right,” says Timur, finally, _finally_ slipping those restless hands of his under his trousers to touch where Felwinter wants himthe most. “You’ve suffered enough, I suppose.”

And if Timur’s now-warm hands felt great on other parts of his body, they feel exquisite here.  Timur wraps his hand around his cock in a firm grip and—Felwinter can’t recall when he must’ve licked his palm, but his hand glides smooth and sure along his length, reducing Felwinter to little moans and shivers.  Later, he’s thankful that Timur doesn’t talk about any of the sounds that come from his mouth.

“Tell me, Fel, is this all right?”

_It’s more than all right,_ he thinks as a well-timed twist makes his hips jerk. “Yes,” he says aloud, and it sounds more like a moan.  He can never really get his words exactly right around Timur, especially when Timur’s touching him.

Timur presses his body more firmly against Felwinter’s back, and he can feel interest stirring between his partner’s legs, rubbing against him.  Felwinter appreciates that Timur’s taking this whole thing slow and careful for him, despite being aroused.  Perhaps it’s gratifying for him to be the one to make Felwinter, former Warlord, feel like this.  Timur’s always been a generous lover to him, if only because of his boundless curiosity.  He spares no expense even here; making sure that Felwinter’s feeling good before he tends to his own arousal.  Even if he only cares about Felwinter’s pleasure so he can experiment with Exo physiology, the attention Timur pays him when they’re intimate is still so very kind.  In a world where it’s kill or be killed, rule or be ruled over, these small things are a wonder to Felwinter.

He hopes Timur hasn’t noticed he’s lost in thought and briefly chastises himself for thinking so hard about this—Timur’s ulterior motive, or whatever the “catch” might be in their relationship—right this moment.  There’s a time and a place for it, of course, but now certainly isn’t the time.

Timur’s hand speeds up, and Felwinter shivers when his partner murmurs _I wonder, would you let me keep you on the edge? Or would you sooner kill me?_ against the side of his head where his ears would be.  He can’t help but move his hips in time with the confident strokes of Timur’s hand.

“I would rather you not,” Felwinter whispers, if a little strained.

“That’s fair,” Timur concedes. “I’ve teased you enough.” He kisses at the area between neck and shoulder, huffing a laugh when he rolls his thumb over the head and Felwinter nearly whimpers.  It’s good—much better than it should be, and he can feel his release building up low in his gut just like he can feel the praise building up in his throat, barely stifled moans of _Timur, yes_ —

Felwinter falls over the edge with a choked-off groan, spilling over Timur’s hand. When he’s spent, the Exo relaxes with a heavy sigh.

Timur seems not to be terribly bothered by his own arousal, which is still clothed and rubbing against Felwinter’s lower back. Nonetheless, the Exo manages to stutter, “Can I—do you need help?”

With a warm laugh, Timur responds, lips still near his temple, “Don’t worry about me.” When Felwinter makes an unhappy sound in complaint, Timur uses his clean hand to pull him in for another embrace.

“Listen, please. Bringing you pleasure is more than enough for me,” Timur explains, and that’s…not what Felwinter was expecting him to say.

“Besides,” Timur continues slyly, “the blankets are soiled. I’m not going to make more of a mess. You know Perun is going to notice if we take them out to wash, right?”

Felwinter grumbles in begrudging agreement, and then shifts in bed so he’s facing his partner.  It’s dark, but his optics have adjusted, so he can see the soft edges of Timur’s smiling face, the soft whites of kind eyes, and the wispy curls of messy hair framing his face.  Some feeling approximating fondness stirs in Felwinter’s chest at the sight, and then he’s lost in thought.

Again, the thousandth time, he wonders what Timur must’ve seen in him.  Timur knows what he does; during the day (and sometimes through the night) Felwinter uses his Light to torture Warlords and other Lightbearers who would use the Light to subjugate others.  Of course, assuming this duty in service of the Iron Lords does lend itself well to being emotionally distant from others.  For so long he’s been aloof, distant, merciless—that now, when faced with intimacy, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He fears that somehow, he’ll ruin what they have—or what they could be.

Once he’s had his fill of committing his partner’s features to memory (it doesn’t take long—he always finds some new feature to admire each time he lays beside him), Felwinter says, “Timur, I’ve no qualms with you taking care of that,” as he’s studying Timur’s expression. “It can’t be comfortable.”

“Is this your way of asking to watch? If that’s the case,” teases Timur, the smile on his face bleeding into his voice, “I’m happy to oblige.” His hand slips down between them and—

“No, I—that’s not what I meant,” Felwinter stutters, embarrassed once again, and deliberately keeps from looking down between them, instead keeping his eyes on Timur’s face.  Felwinter’s at a loss for what to do when he feels Timur squeeze his hand around his own dick and watches him close his eyes.

Felwinter finds himself scrambling to correct himself, tell Timur he isn’t against this at all, but then Timur parts his lips and breathes _Fel_ out in that delicious whisper of a voice and jerks his hips into his hand, and dammit, Felwinter can’t think when he does that.

Timur leans forward to rest his head against Felwinter’s body and picks up the pace between his legs.  “ _Damn_ ,” he breathes, another laugh in his voice. “This is what you do to me, Fel. I’ve hardly touched myself and I’m _dripping._ ”

Arousal shivers down Felwinter’s spine, despite already having finished.  He can’t do much more than hum in sympathy, though, for fear of disturbing his partner.  In hindsight, his hum might’ve sounded a little more like the wail of an injured creature.  By time Felwinter figures it might be polite to ask if he can help, Timur’s gasping into his shoulder, and the sounds that come out of him are going to make the Exo short-circuit.

When Felwinter lifts a hand to gently brush a strand of hair out of Timur’s face, his hand lingering on his cheek, the man shudders and tries to bite back a groan of his name to no avail as he comes wet into his hand.  It’s a moment before Timur is finished, and in that time a million thoughts flash through Felwinter’s mind.  Most of them are fragments of some semblance of awe, and some of them skirt dangerously close to deep affection.

“Are you all right?” Felwinter asks as Timur draws back enough to look at him.

Soft lips meet his metal ones in a gentle kiss that makes Felwinter’s heart flutter. “More than.”

Timur won’t let Felwinter offer him a cloth, and instead gets himself comfortable against the Exo’s chest.  Felwinter can’t think of anything else to say and certainly doesn’t want to force conversation, so he stays quiet.

A long while after, once Felwinter thinks Timur might be lulling in and out of sleep, Timur says _thank you_ in a voice just as soft as the one he used when he entered the room.  But his tone is grateful, almost reverent, like Felwinter granted a wish of his.

One day, Felwinter will be able to tell Timur how much he means to him.  It won’t be tonight, or in the next week, even.  It takes time for winter to ease into spring—for a heart so long encased in cold must thaw to finally bask in the warm light of day.

He’s trying, the best he can.

“Thank _you,”_ Felwinter finds himself murmuring against his partner’s hair.

Eventually, Timur’s warm breaths against his chest finally mellow out into the pattern of sleep and Felwinter finds himself following close behind, holding thoughts of his fellow Iron Lord close to him.  As the warm lull of sleep draws Felwinter into rest, the profound cold of Felwinter Peak seems trivial to the bodies huddled close in bed, whose warmth keeps the cold at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted to write something sweet (or something close to it) dont look at me
> 
> thank you for reading! <3


End file.
